


Breaking and Building Trust

by write_away



Category: The AM Archives (Podcast), The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Light Angst, Post-TBS, Pre-TAMA, They're in love but they won't admit it, setting up offices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: God, she hates this. Why did she think working with her actual evil ex would be a good idea?The problem is - well, no, it’s not a problem, per se. It’s a - a thing.The thing with Owen is that he’s… not exactly evil. He’s intelligent and sweet and thoughtful, and sure, he participated in the captivity and experimentation on her little brother, and he blackmailed her friend and patient, but - and isn’t it awful that she’s justifying that? She thinks perhaps she might be the evil ex - but he has a good heart.---Newly appointed Director, Joan finishes setting up her office at the AM. Owen stops by to help.
Relationships: Joan Bright/Owen Thompson | Agent Green
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Happy Birthday Marcus





	Breaking and Building Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefigureinthecorner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefigureinthecorner/gifts).



> This was written in honor of Marcus thefigureinthecorner's birthday! Happy birthday, Marcus - enjoy my first Brightgreen fic ever. If you can believe it, this was meant to be pure fluff. That did not happen, but hopefully it's not too agonizing for a birthday gift?
> 
> Also. I somehow wrote this in the four hours before midnight because I procrastinated way too hard.
> 
> Enjoy!

Joan has never been one for decoration. 

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the aesthetic of a nicely chosen decor on the wall, or a trinket set beside the computer monitor. It can be lovely and homey and comfortable. It can also be crowded, anxiety-inducing, and overstimulating. 

She can only spend so long in Sam’s office, her desk filled with tchotchkes and shelves littered with equal amounts of books and picture frames.

So, interior design? Just not her thing. She prefers the crispness of minimalism and bare surfaces. 

Plus, well. She just doesn’t have the eye for it, if she’s going to be honest. 

Despite this, she somehow finds herself standing before a previously blank wall in her new office - in the AM, where she’s a director, only three floors above where her brother was once held captive, only one door down from where Wadsworth once sat and planned to wring every last bit of usefulness out of him, and she can’t stop these thoughts from spiraling and webbing out every time she walks in the building, not yet, maybe not ever - frowning at the crookedly hung frame. 

A quiet rap on the doorframe, just a gentle double-tap of knuckles, draws her out of her frustration. She sighs, knowing the knock too well from years of work, of love, of hate. She steels herself, drawing back her shoulders and standing tall. 

“Director Green,” she greets as she turns on her heel to smile serenely. Owen is hovering over the threshold, his shirtsleeves rolled back and pushed to his elbows and his hair in an artful tousle. 

He smiles back, the expression tight and taut. “Director Bright,” he says in return, inclining his head just slightly. 

Joan sucks in a deep breath through her nose. When she agreed to take this job, when she agreed to come on board to make  _ changes _ to this institution… well, that doesn’t mean she changed her mind about  _ him _ . 

Still. Her memories haven’t changed either, for better or for worse, and that means that she can’t help but picture him looking just like this, sleep-rumpled and bleary in the morning as he pads into the kitchen and smiles at her around a cup of coffee bigger than his head, watching with admiring eyes as she hurries around the apartment, brushing her hair and teeth at the same time, cursing at her damned alarm clock for being a dud when they both know that he had hit snooze just so she could get an extra few minutes of rest. 

It’s  _ awful.  _

She crosses her arms across her chest as if that could guard her heart. He clears his throat and shifts his weight from foot to foot. In the silence, Joan can hear the vents shoving cool air down the looping hallways. She can hear the shuffle of orderlies getting ready for their next shift in the break room. She can hear Sam tapping away angrily at a keyboard, as if she’s forgotten for a moment that she sits in the heart of a place where she was once considered nothing more than a potential lab rat.

Where perhaps she still  _ is  _ a potential lab rat. 

Joan would never admit it, but she’s glad her office sits between Sam and Owen’s. She feels like the peacemaker, like the mediator of worlds. She once hoped to be a healer, but she doesn’t know if that’s possible here - can you heal a trust that has been so thoroughly broken? - but perhaps this will be good enough. Perhaps she can trust Owen enough someday.

Owen clears his throat again, breaking through the silence. “Are you, uh - how are you settling in?”

Joan glances around the room. Her file cabinet is in order. Her computer is set up. Her bookshelves are a bit disorganized, but they’ll get there soon enough. The only blight is that damned sketch that hangs askew on the wall. 

It was a gift from Chloe and Frank, a joint project that impresses Joan on a level she doesn’t quite understand, not being an artist herself, but can appreciate for the sheer fact that it exists. Something created through a collaboration that should not be possible, a collaboration that some people might view as strange or disturbing.

Joan thinks it’s beautiful.

It’d be even more beautiful if she could hang it up properly.

That being said, her office is set up. “Just fine,” she lies.

Owen breaks into a smile, this one genuine and  _ real _ , and her heart aches. She suddenly wishes it was the truth. 

“Good,” he says. “Good, I’m - that’s good. It - It took me a bit to get settled.”

Joan can’t help but notice that he still hasn’t entered the room. She does not invite him in. “But you never left.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but - well.  _ Director _ .” He says the word with a too-familiar mix of revulsion, awe, and respect. “It’s a change.”

Joan can understand that. The word sticks in her throat most days, and Mark can’t say it without a sarcastic, bitter air that hangs between them until she gives up on civility and hangs up the phone. “But you’re settled now, though?” she asks, not wanting to acknowledge it out loud.

He nods, jerkily. The glasses slide down his nose with the movement, and it’s so damn  _ endearing _ that Joan wants to smile.

_ God _ , she hates this. Why did she think working with her actual evil ex would be a good idea?

The problem is - well, no, it’s not a  _ problem _ , per se. It’s a - a  _ thing.  _

The  _ thing  _ with Owen is that he’s… not exactly evil. He’s intelligent and sweet and thoughtful, and sure, he participated in the captivity and experimentation on her little brother, and he blackmailed her friend and patient, but - and isn’t it awful that she’s justifying that? She thinks perhaps  _ she  _ might be the evil ex - but he has a good heart. 

She thinks about asking how he’s been, how he’s  _ really _ been since Wadsworth handed this complicated mess of an organization over to him. She thinks about telling him she’s impressed with his leadership. She thinks about confessing that she misses him.

“Good,” she says, a dull echo that seems to ring through silence.

His tight smile is back, fake and forced and unbearable to look at. She glances back to glower at the crooked sketch again, ignoring the feeling of burning eyes on her back. She wonders what he would say if she told him it was made by atypicals, using their atypical abilities.

She decides to keep it to herself. Just in case.

Owen follows her gaze. “That’s new,” he comments, gesturing vaguely at the picture. “But, uh - it’s -”

“Crooked,” Joan finishes his sentence with a nod. She had hoped he wouldn’t notice. It will only lead to an offer to help, an offer to fix it, an offer to wedge his way back into her life as if she  _ needs _ him for anything, as if she can reconcile her attempts to live with her attempts to love. “I know.”

He stares at her, and in his gaze is a helplessness that makes Joan feel like she’s drowning alongside him. He looks like he wants to enter. He looks like he wants to reach out.

He stays exactly where he is, his shiny-toed shoes carefully stalled outside her office door. The invisible line between them is like a force field, and if Joan didn’t know better, she’d wonder if she had somehow manifested abilities within the last five minutes. He doesn’t seem able to cross it. 

She sighs and shoves down the twisting feeling in her gut. “You have an eye for this sort of thing,” she says slowly. “Will you help?”

The silence is loud as he breaks through the barrier between them. “Of course,” he says easily, as if his face doesn’t reveal every emotion rolling through him. Joan doesn’t need Caleb here to know; Owen looks like a drowning man who isn’t sure if he is sucking in fresh air or water. 

Joan feels frozen to the spot as he approaches, and for a moment - for a  _ second _ , really, no more than that - she thinks back to when he’d cross her office to embrace her, to hold her close, to tuck her hair behind her ear and press a gentle kiss to her lips at the end of a long day, all the while her brother suffered in the basements below.

She isn’t sure how she feels about it all. 

Owen reaches over her shoulder, and intellectually, she  _ knows _ he’s reaching for the frame, she  _ knows  _ she’s standing in its way and that he only intends to be helpful, that he isn’t trying to make her heart beat out of her ribcage or to make her shake with anger and want and  _ confusion _ , but that is what is happening, so she holds her breath and refuses to break.

All three seconds that she counts feel infinite.

“There,” Owen says and drops his hand back to his side, but she can still feel his heat, is still close enough that she can imagine throwing herself into his arms and only regretting it later.

His gaze remains on the sketch. It’s as strange as its conception, a confusing swirl of flowers and figures and eyes, but Joan is attached. For some reason, it reminds her of the mural. 

She watches him process it and tries to keep her face impassive. 

“Well?” she asks when he says nothing, when he gives nothing away. “What do you think? Of the sketch?”

His eyes flicker back to her for a split second. “Oh. Um.” He steps back, tucks his hands into his pockets, and regards the frame again. “Beautiful.”

For some reason, Joan flushes.

“Um,” she says and clears her throat. “Thank you - Director. Is there anything else you need?”

Owen looks like he wants to say something - he opens his mouth and closes it with a snap no less than thrice - but he sighs and shakes his head. “No, no. That was all.” His mouth quirks up in the corner. 

He leaves without further conversation. He’s always been good like that - he knows when a conversation is over and willingly dismisses himself before someone else has to take the burden on - but the room suddenly feels  _ empty _ , not minimalist, with its bare walls and clean, sharp edges all around. 

Joan shakes her head as if that will shake her of the loneliness that permeates these halls, then makes a mental note to double-check the lock on the safe behind the picture once he’s gone home for the day. She cannot risk Sam’s hard drive, that wonderfully thorough collection of data, falling into untrustworthy hands. 

She spends the rest of the day resolutely  _ not  _ thinking about Owen, not thinking of his kind face and his gentle eyes and the way she thought, for just an instant, that his hand would come down to brush her cheek like it used to right before he kissed her, sweet and long. She buries herself in paperwork, in meetings, in drinking in Sam’s crowded office space, surrounded by knick-knacks and proof of a life they have outside these walls.

The next morning, she stumbles - a little hung-over and heartbroken and hungry for distraction - into her sterile, empty office to find a single flower lying across her keyboard.

It adds some color to the place. She can’t help but smile all day. 

**Author's Note:**

> I crave validation and praise almost as much as Owen Thompson/Green does.


End file.
